


Tsutsuji

by havvk (noahawk)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Hanzo and other characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 02:17:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12266874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahawk/pseuds/havvk
Summary: pls ignore. supplement / update / edit to my first genji-centric fic





	Tsutsuji

**Author's Note:**

> putting this up temporarily for a genji appreciation discord lol;;
> 
> unbeta'd etc

where hanzos ink is the turbulent flow of blue scales and hard edged, geometric lightning, genji’s is carving, arcing green, a serpent in a field of tsutsuji and fire

it spans the width of his shoulders, slices near his collar bones, singular dragon trailing down his spine; genji appreciates people like he does flowers: his attachments to them are brief, romantic, spirited, and he bores of them easily, a handful at a time whose passion dies as a spark that burns and vanishes or withers away within a few weeks

they are tsutsuji-- azaleas-- he knows the nature of the plant and it's toxicity; it is simple yet charismatic in beauty, far flung in its roots from cottage windowsills to dedicated gardens on ancient castle grounds. the vibrant colors shroud poison in its very cells-- much like people, much like his family

There is irony etched into his skin. genji spends contemplative hours splayed prone on the padded bench, in the small, secretive studio. the scent of antiseptic, wood lacquer, and his own blood hang thick around him, and he is lulled under the buzz of the needle, the artist’s steady hand over his skin, and old American punk rock blaring over the sound system. he should consider this pain: the bite of the needle, the long stretches of self imposed immobility, a lesson in patience he has not learned to exercise elsewhere. it does not feel like pain: it feels like relief, like a temporary escape. he values his connection with the creature that crawls in his veins more than he does his blood family, and tells himself this ritual is for the dragon, and not in compliance of ancient traditions. he is 19 and 20, and he knows his family is poison; he thinks he is poison to his brother.

  
\---

hanzo approaches with another tired plea to take up their inherited responsibility, undiluted by his usual resentment. he stresses the importance of honoring their father’s memory, to carry on Mother’s legacy, to do what is right by their family name. Genji can hear the desperate chord in his words not buried deep enough below the weight of new authority, can see the toll on hanzo’s face, can see the defiant set of his shoulders. genji realizes he abandoned his brother long ago, and despite all at stake, cannot be swayed. he sets the long, precarious bridge between them ablaze with the answer he knows hanzo hoped not to hear.

his brothers next words cut deep, despite how true genji knows them to be: ungrateful, spoiled second son, a coddled selfish child, a drain on family resources who summons prying tabloid attention; a disgrace to the shimada name. both know their father’s protection and dismissal of genji’s behavior was wasted on flashfire affairs and frivolous materialism. even hanzo’s protection had gone unheeded on his sibling ungrateful.

hanzo blames genji for their father’s death, and it is genji who draws first blood on the evening of Children’s Day. a fist, a strike, slow-- only for the weight and torque behind it-- sloppy, for all the technique he has mastered. it breaks hanzo’s nose, catching the latter by surprise, as genji has not lashed out on impulse since they were young. all the tired arguments, the contempt and rage, with hanzo, with the family, with his inability to escape or change the minds of either, are no longer contained. it is hanzo who draws his weapon first in the stormfront that breaks: years of scornful calm, a lifetime of patience revived and run to ground again and again. it is hanzo who says he will save genji from this disgrace of a life he has led, and restore his brother’s honor.

genji knows: that hanzo has always been better at sparring, has always been better at killing. that hanzo is as compelled by the elders as genji is repulsed. that lightning begets fire, and fire consumes.

\--  
Genji staggers back, already blind with pain and descending rapidly into shock, gaping tears in his throat and in the flesh and muscle that once connected his jaw to his skull flowing freely red down his front. He turns his back to Hanzo, vision grey and fraying at the edges, to reach for their mother’s sword displayed on the stand before their family’s creed, the towering scroll looming only a fraction as much as his brother’s rage. In his panic it is the only weapon to replace the one Hanzo rid him of, the only weapon left to defend himself, and before he can stain the delicately shimmering gold of the tsukamaki, it is too late.

\---

he drags himself to consciousness in the hospital bed, flinches away from the practical blue of Dr. Ziegler’s scrubs when she approaches from his left. it will be months later before his visor is tinted green. genji’s lucid moments while he is reassembled are too many, body immobile and incomplete, filled with the stern mask that Morrison wears when speaking to at him, insufficient to hide the strike-commander’s doubt (of his chances at proving a worthwhile asset) and unease (of what they have made of him, what they will make of him). he has too many hours to think upon the implications of his position, to read between every line Morrison and Dr. Ziegler feed him.

  
when the doctor gives him a preliminary schedule for physical therapy, medication, and maintenance, he asks her if ‘overwatch’ has provided themselves with a safety net, perhaps in the form of a kill switch, now that they have their sentient, living weapon. he doesn't know what to make of the doctor’s expression, when her face drains of color. he can't quite parse the vaccuum of silence in the seconds before she answers: if it is abhorrent disgust and offense, or if she is scrambling for the script should he ask such a question. either way, the words rush, nearly stuttered, from her mouth, the assurance that he is his own person, and may do what he wills. that he is otherwise objectively, contractually, bodily, obligated to overwatch-- blackwatch, as it were, is left unsaid.

there is fleeting temptation to escape the Swiss base, temptation to turn against the people who have remade him. It is only temptation; the punishment for insubordination at least, betrayal at worst, of the clan who thought they had owned him was death. Here he sees the same, trapped by action or inaction. either way, he will lose. He cannot fight, he cannot fly. his only remaining option is to comply. Sometimes he thinks overwatch is worse: that the punishment has preceded the crime (or, his brain supplies, perhaps this is punishment for complying, as little or as much as he did, with his family’s business demands). they are the first to cage him.

he knows it is his--rage, hate, grief-- temper that gets the better of him, and it is often. it proves difficult to channel into training and physical recovery alone, and more so to attempt a bare minimum of socializing. He can no longer determine the intentions of those he interacts with when he is unable to outright avoid them, and scathes at honesty and lies alike: it all sounds the same. agents around the base give him a wide berth, or watch him, wary, from the corner of their vision. he knows they do not see him as human-- he does not look it, and feels farthest from it. with a desperate vigilance, he watches everyone in turn, exhaustively aware of his surroundings.

he endures this, a paranoia entertaining elaborate and simple, cutthroat ideas of escape or resistance, for two grueling months, before Reyes catches him, alone. genji drifts down an empty corridor of the base adjacent to the mess hall, caught in a hazy downward spiral. its exacerbated by a phantom stomach, ravenous for taste and texture, tortured by the scents of mediocre foods caught in the ventilation that even his face plate cannot filter. he doesn't notice the commander until Reyes clears his throat, considerate to bring genji’s attention to the present moment before speaking. It has not been uncommon for someone like Dr. Ziegler, Morrison, or other agents, to ask him a question or to speak to him, only for their words to fall on ignored audio receptors, or a mind too mired to immediately translate english. He turns to, not quite hiding the bodily jerk of surprise, and something in his posture must read as aggressive-- certainly defensive, both in physicality and in humiliation at being caught so off guard. Reyes doesn't offer an assessing gaze and a quiet spot for tea, nor extend an invitation to dine in the mess with a massive, though gentle, hand across genji’s shoulders. instead he offers a level gaze, a phone-- new, dark, sleek-- and an expression genji finds difficult to decipher. Reyes tells him to give him a call if he needs anything at all, at any time.

\---

there is an agent who introduces himself as mccree. genji does not know him and yet hates him: mccree has the world’s confidence in knowing he is both weapon and human within blackwatch’s ranks, and comfortably so. for petty’s sake genji adds the cowboy’s relentless adherence to a certain aesthetic to his exhaustive list of grievances, and soon finds mccree is relentless in other aspects. he appreciates the agent’s constant invites for rounds on the shooting range or for games of poker with those around the base, despite genjis consistent declines. he also appreciates mccree’s lack of blatant suspicion of him when he is around, and the lack of reaction the agent shows when genji’s temper bites. it feels an odd balance, but balance none the less.

\---

overwatch now uses genji as their blade, a stolen weapon to cut down its former house. the walls of the castle are alien, its layout and exits known from what feels like dream more than memory. the space itself seems to detect the return of a clan betrayer, and can do nothing but warp themselves in genji’s mind, willing him away like an exorcist to a demon. he will show the castle a demon, the product of shimada clan’s own wrath.

there is one elder who, beyond all reason, recognizes him, who deadnames him in the midst of the bloodletting, fueled by fear and horror, in a desperate attempt to appeal to genji’s humanity. a name he has long forgotten, and it gives his blade pause. he recognizes this elder as one does someone from recurring nightmares, his voice loudest among those urging hanzo to deal with his sibling properly. the correct way, the traditional way. this relative’s blood spills slowly. genji turns the techniques of pain the clan had taught him on itself.

  
\---

genji had designed the tattoo that had burned away with his flesh, and in Nepal rediscovers brush and ink. in the village, in the shrine, and in the sanctum, he has the cold, the monks, and the iris. He has himself and zenyatta for company, and his mentor comes by to watch the painting in progress. in the work he finds a shadow of the camaraderie once between himself and his brother, while a dragon--gold, not quite the shade as Mother’s-- fills the void between them. genji finds he misses hanamura and doubts he would return (again). he finds he misses hanzo, despite everything he’s held against his brother. he misses having a human body, misses warmth in touch and all of his senses in tact.


End file.
